The Awful Truth
by KuryakinGirl
Summary: Mary wants as close to normal, as close to perfect as she can get, even though she knows the awful truth. AUish canon.  Go figure.


Disclaimer—Characters belong to Eric Kripke. No copyright infringement intended. Any similarity to events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Author's Notes—This is not quite what I had anticipated when I sat down to write today, but this is what came out. I'm pretty happy with it, nonetheless. :) Thanks to PenKnight for letting me bum his DVDs. One of these days I'll have my own set, with any luck. And especially to M, for putting up with me. :)

Spoilers—Pilot, implied Home, and a pinch of All Hell Breaks Loose Part 1.

Feedback—Always greatly appreciated.

The Awful Truth—She wants as close to normal, as close to perfect as she can get, even though she knows the awful truth. AU-ish canon. Go figure.

When she'd gotten married, she figured her life would return to some semblance of normalcy. John was a good man, a strong man, a protector. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she could rely on someone else to take care of her. It was a relief, a great unburdening of her soul.

She'd always been chided that "normal" was not a word in her family's vocabulary. Normal was a state of mind that varied for each individual. It was normal for moms and dads to care for their children. It was normal for chefs to cook, pilots to fly, and hunters to hunt. That was the "normal" natural order of things. It had nothing to do with white picket fences and a two-car garage. Home was not a building, but where your family was.

Her family had never seemed like other families. Every few weeks, maybe months, it seemed as though they would pack up all their belongings in the back of the station wagon and head for the next stop, for parts unknown.

They would roll into a new town, find a new place to stay, maybe with friends of her parents, at a hotel or a cabin. That was supposed to be normal as well. And for Mary, it was, long until the time she turned eleven. In preparing to go to yet another new school the next morning, she overheard her parents' talking in hushed tones. The words they were using sounded like something that should've been a timely topic of conversation months ago, in October, not now that it was March.

Vampires? Werewolves?

She'd gotten caught this past Halloween, watching one of those horror movies. She'd spent the next seven nights with the lights on, trying to get some semblance of sleep. Her parents had informed her that there were no such things as mystical, horrible creatures that went bump in the night. They were all made up stories, designed to scare people.

She had never understood why anyone would want to be scared, why anyone would want to tell such a bone-chilling story.

She would've happily let the conversation pass if she hadn't caught sight of the shine of silver from the second floor landing. Quietly dropping to the carpeted floor, she peeked between the banister posts to see her parents on the first floor, loading what looked like crosses, sharpened wooden sticks and weapons into a duffel bag. Her parents who had often said that violence was the last thing anyone should want. That it was never the answer for any earthly problems.

Nervously, she tucked her blonde hair behind her ear, before trying to creep gently down the stairs. They'd been staying at "Aunt Jean's" house, an older woman who wasn't related to either of her parents but had been a family friend for ages. Her children were all grown and out of the house and "Uncle Harold" had been deceased quite a while now. They'd stayed there before, and Mary knew that the fourth and seventh steps from the landing down towards the first floor would offer a tell-tale creak.

Licking her lips, she carefully avoided both offending steps, silently maneuvering herself all the way down to the ground, listening as the conversation continued.

"Do we have enough salt?"

Her mother poked through the duffel bag. "There's plenty."

"Anything happens tonight, I want you behind me. Mary needs you far more than she needs me," said her father, checking the clip in a handgun.

Mary lingered at the bottom step, watching, her mouth hanging open slightly. "Dad?" she managed, her voice an astonished squeak.

Her parents both immediately turned their attention to the stairway.

"What are you doing?" she asked again, noting well that neither of her parents had made any moves to speak. In fact, they exchanged long looks, before her father let out an exhausted sigh, kneeling down and motioning her towards him. Hesitantly, she approached.

"Your mom and I have an important job to do. I need you to stay here with your Auntie Jean, okay?"

"What's going on?"

"We'll explain it all, but we can't right now; we don't have the time..." Her father kissed her forehead. "Be good for Aunt Jean and we'll see you tomorrow."

Uttering the word "tomorrow" to any child is an annoyance, but, generally speaking, it still carried an uplifting connotation. Children have their whole lives ahead of them. Tomorrow is just the beginning of something new and exciting. Mary's tomorrow turned out to be miserable. For a decade, her parents had assured her there were no monsters under the bed or hiding in the closet. It turned out there weren't in the closet because of the hoodoo chant they performed inside while she was at school. And there weren't any under the bed because they'd played connect the dots between the bedposts with salt.

Her whole life had been something of a lie.

She spent the next dozen years learning all there was to learn from her parents, figuring out about the legends behind the creatures and spirits that lingered on earth.

On a trip through Kansas, her car broke down. She was supposed to meet her folks in Indiana, but five miles outside of Lawrence was as far as her clunker allowed her to travel. Sighing, she popped the hood, and exited her car. If it were something supernatural, something spooky, she might've been able to figure out what to do to fix it. Mechanics? Not so much.

Back in her tender years, her mother used to tell her stories about princes riding up on white steeds to save the day. It wasn't exactly white or regal, but the tow truck was a sight for sore eyes, and the man at the wheel wasn't bad-looking either.

"Need some help?"

"Please. I don't know what's wrong with it..." She looked back at the car, as steam began rolling off the engine.

He chuckled. "I'll take a look at it." As she nodded, and he parked the tow truck and climbed out. "I'm John, by the way."

"Mary." John was a good, strong name that went with what looked to be a good, strong man… She bit her lower lip a little.

He noticed the tags on her car: "California, huh? You're a long way from home."

She couldn't help but think she was closer than she'd ever imagined being. "A little."

He poked around for a few minutes, coming away from the engine block with an almost unreadable face. "Yeah, I think we're going to have to take it to the garage, let it cool down a little... But, I tell you what... We'll take the 'er to the garage and right next door is the most amazing diner in Kansas. I haven't been to California, so I can't say it would trump any place there, but it might. They've got some of the most delicious meals, and the best pie I've ever tasted. Just don't tell my mother," he told her. Off her soft laughter, he grinned. "How 'bout it? Let a grease monkey buy you lunch?"

"I'd like that," she admitted.

"Hop on up in the passenger seat; I'll get you hooked on and we'll be in Lawrence in no time."

Her Kansas excursion lasted longer than she'd anticipated, as they needed to order some special parts. But the three days she spent hanging out with John, getting to know the "real" Lawrence was perhaps the best vacation she'd ever had since she'd learned the awful truth about demons and ghosts. She was sad to see it come to an end.

Standing there with John in the garage bay, looking at her newly fixed car, she asked: "Are you sure you don't need to tune up anything else? Maybe the tires need... something? Or the... uh... transmission?"

He looked up at her, playful mischief clear in his eyes. "Miss Mary, is it possible you might be looking for an excuse to stay in Kansas?"

She met his gaze, knowing he'd be hard to lie to. "No, I just want to make sure that you've done everything possible for my car, so I don't have to have some other mechanic somewhere else buy me lunch..."

"There's a very easy way to fix that," he told her, nodding.

"How so?"

"Don't leave."

All of Mary's life had been some grand traveling adventure. Could it be possible for a vagabond to settle down? Could a gypsy really plant roots? In Lawrence, Kansas of all places? Could she try?

A year later, she was absolutely pinned to Lawrence. She'd abandoned her childhood, her previous, past life, to start all over. She wasn't sure what she knew of being a wife, but John had assured her he wasn't sure what he knew of being a husband, but they would find it out together.

She couldn't imagine doubting this life, especially not after young Dean came along, and then Sammy. Sweet Sammy. It was as close to normal, as close to perfect as she'd ever felt her life being. Thanksgiving was around the corner, and then Sammy's first Christmas. She had things to look forward to, plans to make. Those ideas had been completely foreign to her once upon a time.

That night, John came home late from the garage. It wasn't out of the ordinary. She joked sometimes that he was helping other pretty stranded blondes on the highway just outside of town, but she knew that he took his work seriously—always had. Something the Marine Corps had probably instilled in him. It was part of his charm, something she hoped the boys inherited. Their father's dedication, his desire to make the best life he could for his family.

It wasn't unusual to see John checking in on Sammy in the middle of the night, not after working such long hours. Sometimes he still stood quietly in Dean's room, watching his little man sleep. It was endearing.

But the light in the hallway was flickering. A faulty bulb? Hadn't John just changed it the day before? She eased down the corridor, tapping on the fixture. Maybe it wasn't as snug as he'd thought.

At the top of the stairs, she saw the familiar blue flickering ambient light of the television. Had Dean stirred as well? Probably all tuckered out to some infomercial. Except, it wasn't a slick-talking salesman selling the latest soda-can cutting knife and her oldest boy up past bedtime; it was a war flick and her husband's snoring. That meant...

Mary raced back upstairs and as yellow eyes met hers, her heart sank. "You!"

She'd seen him, when she was fifteen, looming over a crib where a baby slept. Six months. The baby had turned six months and, she realized, Sammy would be six months later that morning. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have become so lax? Back then, she'd been hiding, prepared, ready to attack, her parents lying in wait as well. They'd saved the baby, and her mother from a lifetime of hell. Now she was powerless, unarmed. There was nothing she could do, not as he slammed her against the wall.

He'd gotten stronger in the interim, as she'd gotten weaker. She'd adjusted to the calm drudgery of everyday life. That normalcy she'd craved since she was a child would be her undoing, and now she knew it. What was worse, the demon did as well.

Sammy, her sweet Sammy, a pawn of that yellow-eyed demon? She wanted so desperately to fight, trying in vain to resist the power restraining her, lifting her from the ground.

Dean. Had she missed it those years ago? Was this his second visit to the Winchester house, to torment her boys? Would he be all right?

The boys might be if... John. She was sure he'd take care of the boys as best he could, but would he be able to let her death go? Would he be able to move on? She wasn't sure.

With what was sure to be her dying breath, she let out a scream. John had to know...

He should have known so much more, however. Guilt consumed her, like a raging fire. She should've taken better precautions with the boys, to ensure this hadn't happened, to protect them. She should've kept up on the trainings that her parents had put her through. She should've done so many things... and now, she'd never have the opportunity to again. She just wasn't ready to let go yet.

End.


End file.
